


Wildflowers

by sherlocksdaughter



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Flashbacks, Funeral, Love Confessions, M/M, Post His Last Vow, Some description of injury, open casket, short fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-27
Updated: 2014-04-27
Packaged: 2018-01-21 00:21:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1531088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlocksdaughter/pseuds/sherlocksdaughter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock had insisted on the wildflowers beside John’s casket.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wildflowers

**Author's Note:**

> This is sad and I am sorry.
> 
> My first fanfic put on here, so any feedback would be much appreciated!

Sherlock rubs at his wrist absently, his eyes anywhere but on the faces around him. The sun winks through the window and Sherlock hates it. The sound of a woman sobbing softly drifts throughout the room, and Sherlock hates it. He hates the faint, swelling aroma of flowers. He hates the hushed chatter. He hates the way people touch his shoulder and say that they’re sorry, their voices thick. He hates the way people tiptoe around him like a grieving widow.

The sun doesn’t have a right to be shining, Sherlock thinks coldly. It doesn’t have a right to be warm and alive. The faceless people milling about in the cool, overdressed room don’t have a right to let John’s name cross their lips. The wildflowers in the ornate vase don’t have a right to bloom.

 

John had always loved wildflowers. He never told Sherlock, but Sherlock knew. He knew that John didn’t like lilies because lilies were what were placed on young soldier’s coffins. He knew John didn’t like roses because they were loud and cliché. He knew John didn’t like daises because they reminded him of English summers he never had. He knew that John liked wildflowers because he liked disorder and chaos. He liked the way wildflowers grew spontaneously and without permission. He never told Sherlock, but Sherlock knew.

 

Sherlock had insisted on the wildflowers beside John’s casket.

Molly comes up to him. He isn’t looking at her but he can smell her perfume.

“Sherlock?” she says softly, her face wet with tears. “I know it means nothing by now, but I wanted to say sorry. I really am. It wasn’t your fault. Remember that.” She speaks quickly, but her tone is sincere.

He lifts his eyes to hers. He doesn’t cry. He doesn’t smile, but he nods at her.

“Thank you, Molly.” He says, and means it.

She smiles weakly. “He loved you, Sherlock. He loved you so much.”

She shuffles away, leaving Sherlock to look at the ground and not cry.

 

When Mary died, John turned up outside 221b and when Sherlock opened the door John stepped forward and hugged him. When John fell asleep on the sofa, Sherlock covered him with a blanket and kissed his warm forehead.

When Sherlock turned around in a dark alley in the middle of an April night to see blood pouring out of John’s stomach, his heart dropped to his knees and the world stopped. He held John’s dear body to his own as John whispered out his last confessions through bloody, trembling lips. Sherlock tipped down to press his mouth to John’s forehead.

“I love you.” Sherlock said with tears dribbling down his face.

“I love you too.” John said, and when he smiled, sunlight shone from his beautiful face.

John died four hours later, in a white operating theatre with no sunlight. They told Sherlock with quiet voices and Sherlock stared at John’s blood on his hands, feeling his own run cold.

 

Sherlock walked towards John’s open casket with numb feet. No-one looked at him. He stopped, took a deep breath that made his chest hurt and looked down. John eyes were closed, but Sherlock knew the deep, warm blue of them better than anything else in the world. His skin was pale, but Sherlock remembers the way it blushed a light pink when Sherlock made him laugh. His face was relaxed and peaceful, without the wrinkles in the corner of his eyes that he got when he smiled or the creases in his brow that appeared when he was concentrating, and Sherlock felt a numb ache in the centre of his chest. John was wearing his best suit, and Sherlock unconsciously reaches down to fix his tie, fingers resting at John’s collarbone. He touches John’s breastbone, and his amazing, deadly, caring, beautiful hands that are laid crossed on his stomach. He doesn’t cry. Sherlock grazes his fingertips over John’s cool brow, his jawline, his temples, his closed eyes, his cheeks. He touches John’s lips and remembers that the last words that passed them were ‘I love you too’. Sherlock still doesn’t cry.

No-one looks at him as he grips the edge of the wooden casket until his knuckles turn white. No-one looks at him as he leans down and breathes close to John’s lifeless skin. No-one looks at him as he kisses John on his cold forehead, briefly tangling his thin fingers in John’s soft hair.

His knees hit the floor and his body rocks with sobs he can't hear. Everyone looks at him when Sherlock Holmes finally allows himself to fall apart.


End file.
